He stands beneath me, beneath my weight. I am a fang pressing into his chest. He looks into me and his touch is tender. His touch of himself is unknown. His touch of himself is holy. I scrape the moon with my body and offer him forgotten water. I slip against the tree bark, carve it with my weight, wrap him with it. When he sets me here, he sets me here to look into me. His touch of himself is catholic. His touch of himself touches into me. We sit in this tree and feed each other darkness where the breath leaves. The breath leaves and spirals outwards into a darkness. His touch of himself is a vesper. His touch of himself is anointing. He touches himself with quick moistness, he is canonized. He is of quick moistness, he is of quick breath, he is of quick skin. His skin teaches me what it is to weep. His jaw teaches me what it is to be small. His ankles teach me what it is to dance in your feeling. Once, I circled around my tree and did not know what it is to touch him. Once, he combed a woman’s hair and she did not know his touch of himself. He entered her and combed her hair every morning. His fingers knew what it was to spin. Her fingers knew what it was to spin. Once, he spun his fingers and the woman did not know the cradle inside him. His ankles dance in his feeling, his legs sweeten the air. His fingers spin and there is a darkness where the breath leaves. His fingers spin and chrysalis blooms into the wood. Chrysalis spun from quick moisture. Quick moisture of amber and cream. Angel’s eggs. Mortar and pestle. Chrysalis spun from amber and cream. Honey and angel’s eggs. His fingers spin and enter a sainthood. His fingers spin and reach a state of being. He anoints me and there is a darkness where the breath leaves. We are holy. When he sets me here, he sets me her to wrap me in his warmth and glow inside. I am inside my cocoon. Chrysalis catholici.

Carah A. Naseem, “Scrape Bark of the Sycamore with Your Teeth; Scrape the Moon”, in Pith and Amber